Резултати претраге

This clay bird

This clay bird
is actually me.
Angels have a habit
to start a song.
 
In the rhythm of rain and snow
to start a song,
and then with a running start
to throw me against the wall.
 
But colorful fragments -
rubbish, trash and fumes -
didn't get silent and are not silent
and will not get silent.
 
Angels have a habit
to sing and then stop.
But, fragile like frost,
the spirit is breathing in the cold clay,
whistling - and is not getting tired.
 

Having not learned anything

Having not learned anything
intentionally
but having received the gift as a gift
I will share it as a gift as well.
 
Slightly obsessive motive
is pulling the string:
having taken the gift as a gift,
I will not hide it in the bag.
 
Given as a gift, this gift,
only this one,
in the midst of the blazing heat
and among non-melting ice floes.
 

The larks have arrived

The larks have arrived,
the larks.
Old herbs in the bed
are rusty and broken.
 
Old herbs make a litter
for a new weed,
like Palestinian sandstone does
for our Easter.
 

And suffered, and was buried

And He suffered and for a moment
doubted: just like us.
So the Incarnation
is not a concept, an opinion
or an idea

Oh bee, the bee, what for and why

Oh bee, the bee, what for and why
Is it not for me that you turn poison into honey

Don't go farther than the forest

Don't go farther than the forest,
Don't look for a ford in the river,
Here is the clearing, the country road and the bridge.
Only the poor imp
Constantly seeks to plunge into the water
Relying on his tail as on a steering wheel.
But for you, not for an imp,
There's no interest in this,
So clap and stomp on the bridge
With no shyness for your walk,
But having reached its middle,
Look up from depth to height.
 

No words needed

No words needed. No words?
But where to put them?
Put them into suitcase's belly,
Deeper under the bed.
 
No sighs and exhales needed,
No ah and oh

Poor fly into amber

Poor fly into amber
accidentally flew.
Orwellian tear-off calendar
has met its limit.
 
Poor fly in the amber
can't breathe and can't tremble.
And on a bunk in January
it's hard to turn in tightness.
 
Flame licks Orwell's book
in a quiet stove.
The poor fly sings
but no one hears her.
 

We were children

And we - we were children
and got caught into nets,
traps and snares.
And to us - under a lamp with a book,
with armpit thermometer -
moths flew.
 
And someday they will ask us,
where the wind takes us,
where we are rushing
at full speed. 'Chasing',
'sorcerers' and 'bastards'...
And yet, where should we go?
 

Having swallowed ninety grievances

Having swallowed ninety grievances
I will say unequivocally:
if a mouse is sleeping behind the stove
then happiness is possible.
 
If 'Sleep-my-joy-sleep' song is flowing,
then it was not splashed out,
the one that paints days happy,
the silvery drop.